


Novellas; New Beginnings

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Bookstores, Gen, in which zolf picks up a career as a romance novelist, to everyones surprise he's actually pretty good at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 17:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: Brass, by H.S.H. RickettTo a friend,I hope you're doing alright.I miss you.Flow, by H.S.H. RickettTo a friend,I hope you found someone to keep you healthy.I miss you.Beneath Notice, by H.S.H. RickettTo an employee,if you don't like how I wrote you, I'm sorry.I honestly didn't think you could read.





	Novellas; New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> go talk to @this-is-not-an-alias on tumblr. this is all her fault.
> 
> Working Title: _writing Hello Prague made me sad_

Almost no one comes to Rahme's Writing Emporium on a regular basis. Rahme doesn't blame them; it's mostly self-published books that no one wanted and old typewriters that only half-work. She's set up shop about fifteen minute's walk from the idyllic little beach, so most of her business comes from tourists and retirees.

The old oak door creaks open at ten, just like it always does, and Rahme grins. Almost no one comes on a regular basis, but there's still her Saturday usual. "Good morning, Rickett," she signs. Her fey-shaped-like-a-tortoiseshell-cat curls around Rickett's ankles.

(She doesn't know if that's his actual name, but _Rickett_ is the name on the books he sells her. The covers are plain leather, only the title, the author, and maybe a small heart design embossed on the spine. She read the first one to see if she should put it on the shelves. She read the next two because he's a good writer. Rahme doesn't go out of her way to recommend his books, but more people leave with a Rickett under their arm than don't.)

Rickett is an unusual customer. He isn't old, at least not by dwarven standards, but he carries the same weight in his eyes that she sees most often in world-weary elders. 

When Rahme had first met him, he'd bought a typewriter. "Letters to write?" she'd asked conversationally, handing him the closest-to-functioning one she had. He'd shrugged, hadn't said anything except a quick _thank-you_ and been on his way up the road.

Rickett nods in greeting. "Not a talking day?" he asks, and there's no trace of pity in his voice. It's just a rational conclusion. Rahme thinks that he probably understands better than most people why she has days like this. She's got no _proof_ that he was an adventurer before he came to this cove, but she'd bet all the books in her shop he's seen his fair share of demons. Maybe literal, undoubtedly figurative. 

(Certainly would explain some of his more fantastical subplots.)

She grins at him. "What gave it away?" she asks, and he snorts. He doesn't know much sign language, but she's taught him a bit. He'd signed _thank you_ once, and she hadn't stopped grinning for the rest of the day. They're not friends, not unless you really stretch the definition of the word, but they have a sort of understanding. They're friendly. "I just got some new works in." 

Rickett has a thing about other romance novels, but Rahme's never been able to figure out what it is. He always tends to linger by the romance shelves, but he never actually takes any. (Maybe he's worried they'll be better than his. He doesn't seem like the type, though.) Rickett smiles at her thinly. "I'll check them out." (He's not a good liar.) "Can I get a new ribbon, though?" She gives him a thumbs up and goes off to the back. She can hear him leafing through books out front.

She comes back out, and he's staring at the display she's set up. (Campbell just released a new novel, and everyone's been clamouring for it. It has something to do with a charming villain? Or maybe it's an obnoxious hero? She only skimmed it.) She taps her claws loudly on the counter, and Rickett jumps. "Have you read any of Campbell's work? It reminds me of yours. More—" she snaps, trying to remember the word— _"flowery_ than the stuff you write, though." Rickett looks about to go to the counter and check out, but he reaches out and snatches one of the more beat-up Campbells. 

Rahme's eyebrows raise, but she doesn't say anything. Maybe he just wants to compare works. Probably not. "I've read a bit," he admits, and Rahme's eyebrows climb higher. He sounds like talking about this is akin to pulling teeth, but he continues, "I met him, once. Didn't, um. Didn't go too well." Rahme's familiar makes a questioning _mrrp?_ noise. Rickett shrugs and asks in a rush, "How much do I owe you?" 

_There's something there,_ Rahme thinks, but she doesn't say anything.

\---

Rahme likes people-watching. She does a lot of it, watching smiling tourists dry off and tell jokes with their friends as they walk past her shop windows. Retirees roll along in wheelchairs along the well-worn sandy path that serves as a street. None of them really stick around in her memory for a long time.

Except for the sizeable orcish paladin of Aphrodite. Rahme expects she'll stay in some part of her brain for some time.

"Do you have any recommendations?" the paladin had asked, nervously tapping her fingers against her palm. 

Rahme had taken her feet off of the counter and picked out the first book Rickett had sold her. _"Brass,"_ she'd answered easily. If the paladin was in the cult of Aphrodite, she'd probably appreciate a good romance. "It's by a local writer. Quite good. I suppose most people like Campbell more, though, so you might want his standalone novella. Just in case." The paladin had beamed at her and bought both.

Rahme gave half the profit to Rickett, and he'd looked surprised as ever that someone had bought his book.

A tourist makes come-here-kitty noises outside of Rahme's door, and she grins to herself. Maybe they'll come in, maybe they won't. Doesn't really matter to her one way or another.

\---

Rahme's feet are up on the counter, and her nose is in a murder-mystery novel when some interesting people come into her shop. "Hello," greets the shorter one, "I believe you sold my friend a book?" Rahme doesn't take her feet off the counter. There's something about the halfling's tone of voice that makes her bristle. It's high pitched, with an accent that Rahme's only ever heard from blue-blooded families. She doesn't trust it one bit. 

She signs, "Sorry, I can't speak English," fingers drawing lazy lines in the air with practised nonchalance and goes back to her book.

The taller one, a rather short human with unnaturally pale skin, is suddenly closer than Rahme remembers her being. "He said you sold our friend a book," she signs, or something like it, because her signing is _distinctly_ Other-London, and Rahme doesn't like this at all.

Barely looking up from the crisp white pages, (and crisp black letters that she can't bring herself to focus on at the moment) Rahme replies, "I sell a lot of people a lot of books." The woman frowns, and there's something to the cold light in her eye that makes Rahme grasp at the link to her familiar. _Get help if need be,_ she whispers along the link, and she sees the fey-shaped-like-a-tortoiseshell-cat in the corner stretch languidly. She feels his wariness.

The woman translates, "She sells a lot of people a lot of books." The halfling frowns. He's immaculately dressed, a far cry from his companion's practical studded-leather jacket. He's probably the mouthpiece, with the woman as the muscle. Rahme would try and Detect Magic, but she doesn't want to come off as a threat.

The halfling keeps talking to Rahme, clearly expecting his companion to translate for him. "It was a work by a local author. I think the name was Rickett?"

"R-I-C-K-E-T-T?" fingerspells the woman. "You ever met him?"

Rahme doesn't know what the hell Rickett did to get himself in the attention of such clearly dangerous people, but she's pretty sure that if he's been careful enough to avoid them this long, she won't give him to them gift-wrapped. Rahme shrugs. "Yeah, once or twice. Human guy, early thirties, red hair. Why?" The woman looks dejected as soon as Rahme says 'human', and as Rahme continues fabricating details, the woman's shoulders just keep on dropping.

The woman translates, and the halfling looks heartbroken. He's probably just a good actor. "Oh," he says, "well, um, thank you. Come on." The last is directed at the woman, who looks disappointed. Probably just a good actor. Except, it seems like she's trying to _hide_ the disappointment, cloak it in indifference.

Rahme's familiar doesn't say anything back along the link, just comes over and curls up around her shoulders as she tries to refocus on her book.

\---

"So, what did you do to get some adventurers looking for you?" Rahme asks conversationally the next time Rickett is in her shop.

Rickett tenses. "Adventurers?" he asks leadingly. Rahme shrugs, looking up how much his purchase will be. She knows it by heart, of course, but it gives her time to answer the question.

She doesn't look at his face. "Yeah. A fancy halfling and a scary human." Her familiar sends her the image of Rickett tensing further; she can't see it herself, head down and eyes focused on her register. "She—" Rickett slumps, just slightly, and Rahme can't help but wonder if the woman was actually good news— "signed like she was from Other-London, too. They seemed pretty dangerous." Rickett nods. He did know them, then. Rahme reassures him, "They left pretty quickly when I told them—"

"They left?"

Rahme looks up, eyebrow raised. Rickett sounds _sad_ about that turn of events. "Should I have told them who you were?" she asks.

Rickett shakes his head. "No, no, it's— no. Six silver, right?" Rahme is going to tell him that _she_ actually owes _him,_ but he's out the door before she can get the words out.

 _There's something there,_ she thinks.

But it's none of her business, and she and Rickett aren't friends. Hell, she doesn't even know his real name.

Rahme scratches her familiar behind the ears and starts reading the new book he'd given her.

\---

Heals All Wounds, by H.S.H. Rickett  
 _To one Mr Smith,_  
 _don't take your friends for granted._  
 _You'll miss them._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @roswell-the-wrongdoer come interact with me.


End file.
